Collision
by koalaslippers
Summary: "Reek, you've known Sansa since she was a girl. Now watch her become a woman." A consensual redo. Oneshot.


**Because things could have been so different.**

* * *

Her new intended wasn't altogether unpleasant to look at.

He was, in fact, exactly the opposite. It would have been an egregious lie to say that she didn't find him attractive.

She stood idly, Littlefinger by her side, Reek hovering behind her, the three of them watching her betrothed spar in the yard with the other men, hoping against hope that she didn't look _too_ interested in his movements, hoping that it wasn't glaringly obvious that her eyes followed his figure as he danced around his opponents.

In terms of swordsmanship, on a scale of Joffrey Baratheon to Jaime Lannister, though he wasn't perfect he was definitely closer to Jaime, and Sansa found some bizarre pleasure in knowing that Ramsay would have been able to slit Joffrey from neck to navel, had he ever had the opportunity.

He wasn't an honourable fighter, either; Ramsay used every strength he possessed, pressed every advantage, and usually managed to make his disadvantages work in his favour, too. Sansa quite liked this about him. Honour had gotten her father killed, honour had practically destroyed her house. Sansa had seen first hand what honour could do, and she wasn't much fond of it.

She wasn't a child anymore, wasn't waiting for her Florian to come along and rescue her, and Ramsay definitely was not Florian.

There was something else about him, something dark and seductive, something dangerous... And yet, he was handsome. He smiled at her often, his bow-shaped lips easily curving whenever she was near. And to see him now, stripped down to a simple shirt, breeches and boots whilst he sparred, excitement and determination flashing in his eyes as he bested one opponent and then another, sweat making his skin glisten in the cold sunlight... It was... intriguing.

Sansa knew that he was as appreciative of her as she was of him. She'd seen him looking at her when he thought she wasn't paying attention. But three and a half years in King's Landing in a deadly lion's den had taught her to _always_ pay attention, and she'd become attuned to recognising the feeling of eyes on her person.

She had never felt truly desired before.

With Littlefinger, his lust for her had been a fact of life she'd simply had to live with.

But with Ramsay...

With Ramsay, it felt different. It made her stand straighter, pushed her shoulders back and made her sway her hips a little more as she walked. She _invited_ those looks, wanted the rush of heat they brought with them, craved the way his eyes on her set a fire blazing deep inside her belly.

When she'd first coloured her hair in the Eyrie and adopted the persona of Alayne Stone, her new dark look had given her a new identity, made her feel mature and womanly. In her old life, Sansa had never felt mature, or womanly for that matter, her septa never would have allowed it, but Alayne had been free to feel however she liked. And Sansa was delighted to discover that as the black dye washed out of her hair, the feeling of freedom remained.

Sansa had liked Alayne, for all the confidence she'd brought her, but she was a wolf, a Stark, and Starks were meant to be brave.

Ramsay's attention made her feel brave, too; whenever his dark, beguiling gaze swept over her, she'd brazenly meet his eyes, offering him a coy, knowing smile.

The night before her wedding, she'd somehow imbibed a little too much wine, and Lord Bolton had waved off Baelish's valiant attempts to escort her back to her room, instead insisting that Ramsay accompany his betrothed.

It was the first time they'd truly been alone together, but the silence between them had been comfortable, calm, with both of them somehow managing to ignore the fact that they were walking without an escort, in the dark, through Winterfell's empty halls.

That is, until they were outside of Sansa's chambers.

Sansa turned to him slowly, her heavily lidded eyes finding his, and the two had gazed at one another, the heat between them building until suddenly they were attached at the mouth in a fierce kiss. Ramsay's back was against Sansa's door, her arms around his neck and his locked around her slim waist, one hand trailing up her back and into her hair and the other venturing lower, palming her backside roughly. He held her against him as tightly as he was able, and she in turn responded to his passion, sweeping her tongue across the seam of his lips and gasping out a breathy noise of surprise as he reversed their positions, pressing her up against the door just as his teeth nipped at her lip.

At her soft mewl, Ramsay's hips twitched and Sansa stilled, feeling the pressure of his manhood against her inner hip.

She eyed him curiously, her doe eyes wide and innocent, now, and Ramsay grinned wolfishly back at her.

"And so the game begins," he said with a smirk, kissing her on the forehead as he unwound himself from her. He stepped back and looked her up and down a final time; her hair was mussed, her lips were swollen and her face looked deliciously flushed, and it took all the strength he had to put more distance between their bodies. "Goodnight, my Lady."

Still leaning back against the door, with the wine still very much in her system, Sansa cocked her head to the side, biting her lip as Ramsay's heated gaze travelled over her form again. "Tomorrow, then," Sansa replied, a smile in her voice, "Goodnight."

—

Her wedding gown was beautiful and altogether too conservative for her newfound taste in clothing. Her time as Alayne had expanded her wardrobe choices in that she now preferred more form fitting items, taking some inspiration from the way Margaery had dressed, but this far North with winter just around the corner, it was altogether impossible to wear the kind of dresses that she'd become accustomed to wearing when she'd been slinking around the Vale under the guise of being Petyr's fictional illegitimate daughter.

Her experience as Littlefinger's bastard child had been an eye opener, perhaps doubly so because Petyr wasn't as well known in the Vale as he would have liked. To the inhabitants of the Vale, she was just another girl, a pretty girl but another girl nonetheless. When her 'father' was absent, their treatment of her had changed to match her bastard status.

The smallfolk there never would have treated Sansa Stark the way they treated Alayne Stone, but they also wouldn't have told Sansa Stark half of the things that they'd told Alayne Stone. Alayne had learned many things; about love, about life, about lust, about men and the things they did to women, the things that women did back to men... things that women did to themselves to make themselves feel good. Sansa had heard how enjoyable the marriage bed could be - being under the same roof as her Aunt Lysa and Lord Baelish during their marriage had left little to the imagination, especially with how vocal her aunt was - but learning about it properly had been an eye opener. And learning to please herself... well, that had been educational to say the least. Being Alayne Stone had allowed her to discover her own sense of sexuality and Sansa clung onto it, slowly discovering how to use her feminine wiles as weapons as Cersei had once promised she would.

She hadn't yet felt it necessary to use the famed weapon between her legs, finding coquettish smiles and fluttering lashes powerful enough, but she knew that marriage would soon change that.

It was a combination of all of these things that had Sansa eying her wedding gown with a frown. Only her face and hands were visible, the rest of her covered with layers of white fur and soft but thick white fabric that pulled in at her waist to emphasise the smallness of her frame. The gown was embroidered simply, in delicate lines, with the most exquisite silver stitching, and Sansa knew that it must have taken weeks to sew.

Her whole appearance reeked of Littlefinger's influence - he wanted her hair up and braided and her skin covered as much as possible, wanted her looking as young and as virginal as could be achieved, regardless of the fact that she'd been walking around Winterfell for the past four days in figure-hugging dark gowns that emphasised the curves of her body.

She took some small pleasure in seeing the devastation on Theon's face when she'd refused to touch him. He told her he'd get into trouble - all this served was to solidfy her decision. She _hated_ Theon and felt nothing but disgust for the creature that Ramsay had no doubt tortured him into.

Yes, she was under no illusions as to Ramsay's true character.

She'd happened upon his torture chamber during a nighttime stroll, finding three giant wooden X's in the room, two of which were occupied and the third was vacant. She'd seen the table of instruments, had perused them at leisure, determined not to let the horror show on her face.

In her short amount of time back at Winterfell, it had become abundantly clear that Ramsay was grotesquely cruel, there was to be no doubt about that; the man was practically unhinged in his constant need to make all of those around him extremely uncomfortable.

Thanks to Joffrey and his fondness for mentally and physically abusing her in front of the entire court, Sansa knew this game, she had played this game, and whilst the rules had been tossed aside and all pretence of care about her well being had vanished, the core principles remained the same.

But when Ramsay insisted that Reek stay in the room to witness her deflowering, Sansa could not fight her surprise, glancing back at Ramsay to see if he was serious.

And then the door was closed. Then it was locked. And Ramsay was telling her to take off her clothes.

Maybe he wanted her to be frightened, to cower away from the dark promise in his eyes, but she did not - could not - for the thought of him taking here here, now, before the Greyjoy creature, sent a sensual, rebellious thrill through her body.

She turned slowly, glancing briefly at Theon - Reek - just long enough for Ramsay to see the defiance in her gaze, defiance that he misinterpreted, and gave Sansa a warning about his dislike of having to ask for things a second time.

There was an edge to his voice that hadn't ever been there when he'd addressed her before, and it made Sansa unknowingly compliant.

She slowly unpinned her hair, gently shaking out the formal braids and allowing her auburn hair to tumble loosely around her shoulders in tousled waves.

Her eyes met those of her husband and she took a step back, just out his reach, but before he could protest her fingers were pulling artfully at the laces to her gown, revealing inch after flawless inch of her creamy skin. Hugging the garment to her body, Sansa faced Ramsay, boldly meting his gaze again. She would no longer be a pawn in the games of men, she vowed, she would take conrtrol and prove to all of them that she was a trueborn Stark, a she wolf, and she would no longer be a victim of her circumstances.

The gown fell to the floor.

Her skin prickled deliciously as her new husband raked his eyes over her bare body. That he desired her was obvious and his lust was heady; it made her feel brave and powerful, and so she stepped forwards, kicking her dress behind her as Ramsay pulled her close, his able hands greedily clawing at her exposed flesh.

She did not speak - Ramsay spoke enough for all three of them, narrating his lecherous thoughts into her ear as his own clothes were slowly shucked off. She was not idle, rather a participant, as eager to touch him as she was for him to touch her.

His hands kneaded at her supple body, expertly caressing her into a pliant and aroused state; her back arched against his chest with her head against his shoulder, eyes closed, mouth open as she let out low breathy moans. If Ramsay was surprised by her willingness to consummate their marriage, he did now show it, instead using his masterful fingers to coax her into readiness.

He had initially wanted to break her, to hear her scream in pain and relish as her blood, sweat and tears soiled their marriage bed, but this? This seemed to be so much... more. More than he had ever dared hope for, more than he had anticipated from the Stark girl.

It was true that he was depraved. Bad. Monstrous. and it was also true that Sansa was none of those things, not even a little bit. But he could feel it, taste it in the air. She had a beautiful hidden darkness within her, subtle glowing embers of malice and hostility, borne and nurtured from years of abuse at the hands of others, and his every touch stoked those flames.

He pinched a pebbled nipple, and claimed the unmarked expanse of her pale throat with his lips and teeth, marking her, branding her, and Sansa moaned, loudly this time, as one of her arms weaved up around Ramsay's neck.

Her fingers tangled in his hair and she tugged hard, her nails grazing his scalp and she pressed his face into her wordlessly pleading for more.

Ramsay's free hand traced down her body, eventually reaching the softly trimmed crown of hair at the apex of her thighs. He returned the favour, tugging harshly on her pubic hair and eliciting a deliciously pained yelp of panic from her lips. He immediately chased away the pain by swiping his index finger over her clitoris first, then into the velvety moisture beyond.

The yelp became a breathy, submissive sigh, and she relaxed into his grip, mewling softly at his coaxing ministrations. He slipped one finger into her and she arched her back away from him, moaning at the intrusion.

"Look at her, Reek," Ramsay's voice rang out in the room and Sansa's eyes flashed open at the reminder that they had a spectator. Ramsay glanced down at his wife, amused, and watched with interest as her face contorted with pleasure, another finger sliding into her wet heat and his wrist twisting just so. "Isn't she _lovely?"_

Sansa's mouth went slack and her head fell back. The feeling of Ramsay's fingers inside of her was unlike anything she had ever felt, and as he pushed her down onto the fur covered bed, all she wanted was more.

He pulled back his hand, smirking at her whimper of protest. His deft hands opened her knees and his body covered hers on her bed, his erection bobbing between their bodies. "My lady Sansa," Ramsay said, trailing his fingertips gently down her face as his other hand aligned his length with her opening, "You are so..." his hand grasped her throat and his hips surged forwards, piercing through her maidenhead with one merciless thrust. "...Beautiful."

With a clenched jaw, Sansa hissed out a breath through her teeth. She looked up at him, defiant and proud even as her body throbbed with pain. Ramsay's hips retreated and for one foolish second Sansa actually thought that the man was offering her a reprieve, but his erection entered her again, harder this time than the last, sending a fresh stab of pain through her trembling form. He stilled, then, and Sansa warily opened her eyes, gazing up into the face of her husband.

The hand around her throat went back to her face, his thumb grazing across her cheekbone and his fingers going into her hair. He was staring at her, his glacial blue eyes unusually soft as they melted into hers. He caught her mouth in a sudden, passionate kiss, his tongue begging entry past her lips, and she obliged, surprised by his sweetness after the initial brutality of her deflowering.

The fingers in her hair tugged a little and Sansa let out a quiet groan, the muscles bellow her waist clenching helplessly.

A moaned curse escaped her husbands lips as he broke their kiss. Sansa felt a small rush of power as she took in the pained expression on his face. Her hands, which had been idle, found Ramsay's back, her long fingers trailing up and down the bare skin there. She squeezed those muscles again, experimental this time, and Ramsay let out a low chuckle.

"As my lady commands."

He began to move, surging in and out of her as she squirmed underneath him, the pain long since chased away by the fire burning deep in her belly. She met him thrust for thrust, moving her hips with his, trying to reach the summit of her pleasure, but it remained out of reach.

Ramsay could feel her growing frustration and grinned into her neck, pulling her close as he rolled them over, reversing their positions. The movement caused his length to hit a particularly sensitive spot inside of her and she moaned loudly, her body desperate to seek out that feeling again. Ramsay chuckled again as his lady wife sat up, eyeing the place where his cock disappeared into the soft thatch of hair at the apex of her thighs. He watched as a light flush spread from her cheeks down her neck to her chest, and then he realised that she was _not_ looking at him.

Her gaze, instead, was fixed on Reek, who was crying silently by the door, and her arms moved to cover her exposed chest.

This would not do, Ramsay thought, sitting up and grabbing her hands, pulling them behind her and holding them there with one hand. With the other, he took hold of her face. "Look at me," he said sharply, reinforcing his words with a thrust of his hips. Sansa cried out at the feeling and Ramsay began a vicious rhythm, pulling her hair and lowering his mouth to the join of her neck and shoulder.

His teeth latched on to the pale surface, biting and sucking on the flesh there until it was an angry purple. On his lap, Sansa was riding him beautifully, her hands gripping his shoulders as she desperately sought more friction. Her release was sudden, brought on by Ramsay reaching between them and rolling her clit between his thumb and forefinger, and she cried out his name as her body clenched around his.

Ramsay unwrapped her legs from around his waist and pushed her onto her back, lifting one leg and trapping it between them.

He pushed into her again, thoroughly enjoying the way she was clawing at his back, her long nails leaving bloody welts along his skin. Ramsay let out a surprised hiss as her teeth found the muscle below his collarbone - she left an angry mark there, just as he had left his on her.

His fingers curled around her thighs, his grip hard and bruising, and she cried out as the combination of pleasure and pain sent her spiralling towards her climax. Her thumbnail scraped over one of his nipples and he roared at the sensation, the sudden feeling sending him over the edge and he gave one last brutal thrust, his cock hitting her cervix as he experienced the most intense release of his life.

They lay in an exhausted silence for a moment or two, their rushed breathing and the sound of the fire filling the room. Ramsay pulled his softening cock from her body and smiled as he saw that her thighs were faintly streaked with blood. He lifted her legs again, pressing a kiss to each inner knee, and then dropped a final kiss onto her temple before he settled beside her on the furs, propped up on one elbow.

Sansa's lips were curved into a small smile, a smile she couldn't seem to fight, a smile she didn't want to fight. And then she remembered Reek, standing by the door, and she began to laugh and laugh and laugh.

Fin.


End file.
